In the corner of the dusty attic, a moth spoke to an old clock. "Time," it whispered, "never was."

She remembered the taste of rain on her skin—an embrace from a world long departed, yet achingly close.

The scholar paused. "This book," he murmured, "contains no words, only echoes of what could have been."

Beneath the lavender skies, a child once danced to rhythms known only to the stars themselves.

Among the coffee-stained letters lay a promise never spoken, hidden beneath layers of untold truths.

On porcelain cups, painted whispers of a future now past. Did they ever hold the warmth of tea?